


Hospitality

by fatal_drum



Series: Hospitality [1]
Category: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-05
Updated: 2011-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-22 05:39:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In another world, Charles was forced from his home only to find a place by Sebastian Shaw's side as his trusted telepath and plaything. When Erik inevitably comes seeking revenge, Shaw decides to give him a taste of the benefits of being an evil overlord - starting with Charles. Written for 1st-Class Kink prompt <a href="http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/806.html?thread=225574#t225574">party favour</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The chapter divisions are slightly altered from the original Livejournal post; no content has been removed.

“Erik, I know your training was difficult.” Shaw says, stepping around the desk. “But it served its purpose, and it’s over now. I took you from a weak boy to a man capable of hunting me down.”

Erik's fists clench. Of all the ways he'd imagined this meeting, this had not been one of them. Still, he can let the man spout his hubris before taking him out. It will make vengeance all the more satisfying.

When Erik doesn’t interrupt, Shaw raises a glass of dark liquor to his lips. “I saw the potential in you long before you ever did. You were raised a mouse to cower in someone’s attic until the cats came prowling.”

He sets the glass down with a clink. “How many cowardly Nazis have you put out of commission? And how many could you have, if I’d left you to die in Auschwitz?”

“I admit you could have had more time with your mother. She might have lived long enough for you to see her worked like a pack horse, starving inches at a time, whored out to the lowest soldiers. Perhaps you would have been, too; there were plenty who’d want a pretty child to suck their– ah, ah ah.”

A silver paperweight has crumpled into a tight ball, rising into the air before Shaw's face - and suddenly Erik _drops_ it. When he reaches for the space where his power lives within him, he can’t feel anything.

The shock must show on his face, because Shaw smiles in satisfaction. “Do you like my dear Charles? He’s very good at what he does.”

Erik follows the doctor’s gaze to a boy sitting in the corner so quietly Erik walked right by him. Brown hair flops over his eyes, pulled over his shoulder in a loose tail. He wears a loose white shirt and plain black trousers, both casually expensive. His features are soft and childish, but the set of his mouth is grave, as well as the deep blue eyes watching him.

“And what is that?” Erik asks flatly, working to keep the discomfort from his voice. He’s never been _cut off_ before, able to see the gleam of silver without feeling the hardness of metal in his mind, the cool brightness that promises to do his bidding. Even the coin in his pocket is silent.

 _I’m sorry for this, friend._ a quiet, cultured voice says. The boy’s lips don’t move, but Erik has no doubt where the voice comes from. Suddenly Erik remembers the craven bank manager, the dumb shock on his face when he couldn’t hit the alarm, when Erik laid out his terms.

He tastes German beer for the first time in years, hears the smug tone of the killers thinking they could hide from him. Feels the knife sail through the air to puncture the fat man’s hand, hears the pained gasp of Shaw’s location - before he’s back in the ship’s hold, staring at the strange boy.

 _Truly sorry._ The deep eyes hold Erik’s for a moment before the telepath turns to tell Shaw what he’s learned.

“ _Wunderbar_.” Shaw beckons and the boy perches on the edge of Shaw’s desk. He doesn’t resist when Shaw tugs his chin up to claim his mouth, but his eyes squeeze shut when Shaw's hand moves pull his hair hard.

Shaw’s eyes open a long moment later, fixing on Erik before he releases the telepath. The boy’s lips are swollen as if from sharp teeth.

Anger rises white-hot in Erik, and he doesn’t know why. The coin in his pocket leaps into awareness for a moment, ready to take on Erik’s will again, before Charles frowns and it goes dead once more.

“I don’t need Charles to tell me what you’re thinking.” the man says with a slow smile. “I raised you, after all, and that magnificent stubborn streak isn’t new. It would be a shame if I had to put you out of commission, my boy. Wouldn’t it, my boy?”

“He’s quite strong.” the boy says with reddened lips. Shaw claps a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Very astute. You’re every inch the weapon I made you, Erik. It would be a shame to take you out. I’m offering you your life, and more besides. We can live like kings.” he says, gesturing to the ornate office with his glass. “I already do. You can have your own palaces, servants, armies, and playthings."

"Why don’t I give you a taste? I can be a very generous man.”

The telepath’s face goes blank, his eyes shuttered, before Erik realizes what is being offered.

“Charles, why don’t you find a room for our guest tonight? You two can have a little chat, and we’ll see if Erik isn’t more amenable in the morning.”

The boy bows stiffly and murmurs his assent, exiting the room. Shaw’s eyes follow as if he would stop and bend him over the desk right there.

“Telepaths are useful creatures.” Shaw says conversationally.

“How did _you_ ever get one?”

Shaw chuckles. “I did him a kindness once. It made an impression.”

“And now you pass him to your enemies like a party favor?”

The empty look has stayed with Erik, burned onto his retinas. The look that says Charles wants no part of it, but doesn’t dare show anger or fear or displeasure.

“You’re not the only child I’ve trained, Erik. All you needed was anger, and you were clay in my hands. Kindness is a far stronger weapon against Charles. He never forgets it, and will forgive you anything for more of it.”

The words echo in Erik’s head: _I’m sorry, friend._ Erik would never have apologized for using his gifts against an enemy. But what kindness would enable the boy to justify being handed to someone like himself, Erik could not imagine.

“And if I hurt him?" Erik asks scornfully. "Killed him?”

“Then you will find me another telepath or die trying, my boy. Though between you and me,” Shaw’s voice dropped to a conspiratory whisper, “he won’t mind one bit if you hurt him. Drives him wild, in fact, for all his struggling and pretension.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I’m truthful. Now, go to your room and we can talk in the morning.” He makes a shooing gesture with one hand.

With his weapons gone and the metal in the room still so strangely dead, Erik has no choice but to enter the hall, biding his time. He can’t kill Shaw as long as the telepath is in commission. But perhaps if he stays… if he can make them drop their guard…

 _This way,_ the boy says unobtrusively, projecting the path from Shaw’s office to where the telepath stands. The boy opens a door, beckoning Erik inside.

Shaw doesn’t skimp on luxuries, that much is sure. Plush carpets sink under his feet, rich and red. The furniture is all deeply polished carved wood, accented here and there with gold fittings that Erik knows instinctively are real.

The boy’s hold on him is beginning to slip.

“What do you drink?” Charles asks, walking to a small kitchenette.

“Scotch if you have it.”

The boy nods, bringing out two glasses, a decanter, and ice. More gold cradles the base of the bottle. Still more wraps around the boy’s soft neck, his wrist, a few fingers. Erik could squeeze it tight if he wanted to, but he’s never been one to show his hand too early.

Charles hands a glass to him and sits with his own, closer to Erik than the boy probably wants to be. His long fingers stroke the rim of the glass as he probably plans what to say next.

“Why are you doing this?” Erik asks suddenly.

“Pouring you drinks?”

“We both know that’s not why you’re here.”

“Pouring you drinks?”

“We both know that’s not why you’re here.”

The boy lifts the glass to his lips and takes a deep swallow. It’s strong drink, but he doesn’t flinch at the taste.

“Call it hospitality.” he says dryly.

As if the telepath were a bottle of wine, or an ottoman to prop up his feet.

“You forget: I’m your employer’s enemy. Your enemy. I could hurt you, and he wouldn’t stop me.”

“I could." Charles says without arrogance.

“I don’t need my power to hurt you, Charles. Shaw saw to that.”

The boy’s eyes go blank again. Erik thinks he knows this reaction. Showing fear to a captor may only spur him on. Defiance practically begs for punishment. This blank look invites nothing, though, and gives nothing away. Protecting his dignity and his pretty face, too.

 

Charles raises the glass to his lips, gripping tightly enough to mostly disguise a tremble. “If hurting me is what you want, Mr. Lehnsherr, I won’t stop you. That’s part of Sebastian’s hospitality as well.”

Erik grabs the boy by his collar, hauling him half-out of his chair. The glass falls from his hand, spilling ice and scotch over the table, and his eyes go wide and bright with fear for a moment before he smothers that reaction, too. He can’t, however, hide his rapid breathing and pale face.

“Do you want me to hurt you, Charles?”

Charles swallows but doesn’t look away. Certainly no coward, for all his inexplicable submission. “That’s immaterial to our discussion.”

Erik slaps the boy’s face once, hard. “That’s not what I asked.”

The boy flinches at the impact, then tilts his face away as his loyalty to Shaw’s sick game wars with self-preservation. His tongue darts out, quick and nervous, to wet his lips before he answers.

“Speaking for myself, no. But Sebastian is rather hoping you will.”

Erik’s fingers clench in the boy’s shirt. “And you can follow a man who wants that from you.”

“I can follow a man who is honest about what he wants, and who keeps those I care about safe.”  
Erik releases Charles’ collar, forcing him to catch himself with one hand on the table and the other on Erik’s knee. The muscles tighten in Erik’s thigh at the unexpected touch before the boy rises, walking back to the kitchenette.

“Shaw is a monster.” Erik says hotly, wondering why he bothers to when it should be clear to anyone with the conscience Charles seems to possess. Erik should be gone by now, Shaw dead on the floor above them, his pet telepath staring empty-eyed at the ceiling. They shouldn’t even be speaking. “What could he possibly offer you?”

“This isn’t about me, Mr. Lehnsherr.” Charles replies, taking a cloth to the scotch dripping off the table. “It’s about what you’ll decide.”

Erik stops, his anger clearing away for a moment. He isn’t here to convince Charles he is a fool, but to bide his time. If he plays the game well enough, he will have another chance at Shaw. Let the boy think he’s won Erik over. The rest will come later.

He goes with a change of subject. “Perhaps you can convince me. You saw how I got here earlier…” He touches his temple with two fingers. “Don’t I deserve the same – ‘hospitality’ - you took with me?”

Charles pauses in carrying the glass away. “What do you mean?”

The telepath hadn’t expected that; Erik’s lips curve in a smile. “You’ve been inside my head; I want inside yours. Show me why you joined him. Why you think his cause is worth him throwing you to the wolves.”

Charles’ eyes narrow, indignant. “That’s not – “

“What Shaw promised from you? I could go ask and see if that’s on the list.” Erik sets his glass down as if he would do just that. “Unless you _prefer_ being beaten and fucked, like he implied. Is that why you refuse me?”

Charles’ face flushes in shame; he’s clearly hit a nerve. “Why do you care why I’m here, or what I want?”

“ _Show_ me.”

Charles runs a hand through the hair that flops over his face, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t – I haven’t done this much. I look at others’ thoughts quite often, or project things that don’t exist, but I don’t usually send it directly. I might not be able to control what you get from me.”

Erik raises an eyebrow. “You think I’m afraid?”

Charles bridges the distance between them, staring down at Erik. “Not you. Never.”

Two fingers reach to brush Erik’s temple, and the room falls away.

*

He’s never been truly dirty before. Not like this, with weeks of grime and sweat ground into his skin, clogging every pore. His clothes were never meant to be worn this long, the soft fabric already beginning to fray and go thin in places. It’s also colder out here than it was in his well-heated mansion. His arm closes around someone’s body for warmth.

He doesn’t need to see the regret in her eyes; it’s poured into his mind every day since Mother woke him in the night, demanding he send this “monster” – his _sister_ – into the cold. Every day since they left hand in hand, Mother refusing to let them stay and pack – what would he have packed, anyway? He’d always had servants to decide. A book, his pictures of Einstein, his favorite toy aeroplane -

None of that would have helped them.

“Are you hungry, love?” The girl shakes her head, but the lie as palpable to him, the echoing hunger gnawing his stomach.  


“The kitchen’s closed by now, but maybe we can – “

“You should let me go with him.” she says without looking at him.

“For the last time, Raven, you’re not going off with that man. I’d rather starve than have you – _sell_ yourself.”

“It’s my body, Charles. I can do what I want with it.” she snaps, looking up at him. Her face is too round and soft, her brown eyes too young for him to ever agree.

“Listen, love, I’ll find a job. We’ll keep trying. You’re far too precious to waste like that, do you hear me?”

Her cheeks flush, and she looks away again, shamed. His hand strokes her hair, soft even under the dirt and oil.

“We’ll be fine, Raven.” he says, pulling her closer.

If only he knew how…

*

Another night, this time brighter, air crisp against his skin, neon signs from restaurants lighting his way. He has money in his pocket for the first time since they ran, and the weight of it is reassuring. Enough to feed them both for days, or get them into a motel, let them have more than a bed of newspapers and a quick rinse under a bathroom sink. Soon they’ll have a flat, he can see it. It won’t be much, but it’ll be grander than the whole Xavier estate, and –

 _Stop! You’re hurting me!_

He stops dead in his tracks, whirling around to track the familiar voice. But it’s not her voice he hears; she could be miles away.

 _Please let me go -_

East, where they’d slept last night. Where Charles told her to wait. His mouth goes dry, and his feet are moving before he knows it, heedless of what’s happening, of whether he can stop it, if he can get there in time. He just needs to be there, and he ignores the people staring, the men he shoves out of his way, the driver that honks furiously when he misses Charles by inches.

He strains to grasp her presence as he runs, torn between wanting the screaming to stop and needing to at hear her voice.

His chest burns by the time he sees them, three of them, behind a warehouse. All he sees of Raven is her blonde hair on the pavement, face shoved down as one of them moves behind her. The other two watch raptly, one of them twirling a knife in his fingers –

 _(He wills the knife to fly, but it won’t go. Why won’t it go, why won’t it –?_

 _This isn’t his memory-)_

 _Stop._ he orders. The three of them go still as death, something he’s never done to someone before. Another order makes the first man get off of Raven with a nauseating wet sound and a whimper from her throat.

They touched his sister.

They hurt her, who never hurt anyone.

They will pay more than they ever imagined.

*

He gathers the sound of Raven’s screams in his head, the fear and hurt she’d projected from so far away, the terror of not knowing what they would do, if she would live, if that knife would puncture her skin over and over as they promised. He takes his own fear, too, the tight panic in his chest when he heard her, the rage making him shake even now.

He gathers these thoughts and more, honing them to a sharp point like a spear.

Then he lets it fly.

The men’s eyes go wide with shared terror, fighting his hold on them. One lets out a low, broken sound, falling to his knees. Another sobs at the horror that won’t let go, the sights and sounds and never-ending fear that echo in his head. The last just stares emptily.

He watches without guilt or pity, but it isn’t enough. When the knife falls to the pavement with a clatter, and an idea crystallizes in his mind.

But first, he needs to see to Raven.

*

What seems like hours later, she’s sobbing into his chest, and the men are no longer moving. He clutches her as if he can erase the past with his arms, stroking her hair with shaking hands. Neither of them notice another presence approaching, not until someone clears his throat.

His eyes fly open, and he almost doesn’t credit the sight before him: a man with skin as red as apples and a scar down one cheek. His ears and teeth are pointed, as is the tail swinging in time with his steps, the tip spade-shaped like a cartoon devil.

“We need to be leave before the cops get here.” he says, holding out a hand.

“Who are you?”

“It won’t matter who I am if you’re in jail – or chained in some lab, once they realize what you did. I could feel you from a block away”

Raven’s eyes fix on the strange-looking man, the second mutant she’s met in her life and the first to be so obviously marked.

“Hurry,” the man says.

He looks down at his sister, and she nods fiercely, wiping her tears with one hand.

He takes the stranger's hand without another thought.

*

“Azazel tells me impressive things about you.” the blond man says, his smile warm and disarming.

 _(He never looked at me that way - )_

“What do you mean?”

“How you handled those thugs, and your rage echoed in his own head. I’d bet everyone in a quarter-mile felt it, even if they didn’t understand."

He looks down, ashamed that this stranger knows what he could do, what he _did_ , how the blood had spurted from a hundred self-inflicted cuts and he enjoyed it.

“Sir, I didn’t mean – I’m not like that – “

Shaw’s expression grows serious. “That filth hurt your sister, the woman you love. Any man would do what you did, if he had the guts. Your talent saved Raven, my boy - and I could use talent like that.”

“What do you - ?”

Shaw smiles again, setting his hands on his knees. “I’m offering you a job, kiddo.”

Charles’ eyes widen, afraid to believe. “You – _want_ someone like me? I’m dangerous – “

“So is a scalpel, in the wrong hands.” Shaw reaches to take Charles’ hand in his, his fingers warm and dry. “But I can see that you want to do good. You can help me, and I can keep you off the streets and keep your sister safe."

Off the streets, like he’d promised Raven all those years ago.

Safe, like he’d been foolish to imagine she was before.

And he could be useful. He’d grown up expecting to attend Oxford like his father, to study the genes that made him and Raven so different from the rest of the world. He’s lost that chance with the rest of his family.

“You can be a part of something bigger, Charles.” Shaw says as if he were the telepath.

When Charles agrees, Shaw’s eyes brighten, and he wraps an arm around his shoulders, guiding him from the room so he can meet his colleages. When Shaw’s hand slides around his waist, the hold is strangely intimate, but he doesn’t mind.

He can be part of something bigger.

*

The room melts around him, Shaw disappearing, the lights brightening, the metal around him no longer flat and dead. Charles’ hand withdraws from his face, and the boy stares solemnly down at him.

“Is that enough, Mr. Lehnsherr?”

Erik can feel the men’s minds twisting under his (no, Charles’) will, taste the slowly-mounting panic as they realize there is no. way. out. Charles shielded him from the worst of his actions, but he knows none of those men escaped unscathed.

Charles’ memories have an extra dimension that Erik will never know in real life, and that suits him just fine.

“Where’s your sister now?”

“Yale. One of the only women in the genetics department.” Charles says with a thin but proud smile.

“You love her. Do you love Shaw?”

Charles sits, raising Erik’s drink to his mouth and taking a long, deep pull.

“It’s getting late, Mr. Lehnsherr,” he says, slipping a hand under his shirt collar as if he were too warm. “We could spend our time on more pleasant business.”

“Why does Shaw want me to use you so badly?” Erik asks, not rising to the bait.

“Why does it matter?” The boy’s fingers flick open a button to reveal more pale skin. The hair on his chest is sparse and soft-looking. “It’s not so I can control you, if that's what you're thinking. I could make you do anything I liked in the short-term, but that would only work for so long.”

“Anything?” Erik asks, crossing a leg over his knee.

 _"Anything."_ the voice echoes in his mind, and the words emanate from Erik’s mouth as well.

“That’s quite a gift.”

Erik ignores the strange, violated feeling in his throat. Another button pops open, and another, until the shirt hangs uselessly open. Charles shrugs it off with the air of someone who knows precisely what temptation he presents.

“Why should I want you?” Erik asks dismissively.

“Because I’ve had plenty of time to practice. To experiment, if you will.” The boy rises to settle on the edge of Erik’s lap as if he belonged there. “I’ve spent enough time in lovers’ minds to know exactly where to touch them, and how…”

He lays a hand lightly on Erik’s chest, fingers barely resting against the black fabric.

“You don’t have to be here, either, or with me; we could be anywhere or anyone. This is a fine and private place, but it could just as easily be a palace, or the back of a dark pub. I could be any man you’ve ever – “

“I don’t want you in my head.” Erik snaps.

“Fair enough.” Charles says, hooking an arm around Erik’s neck so he can lean over his lap. “What do you want?”

“Show me what you have to offer.” he whispers.

“Touch yourself.”

A hint of pink colors Charles’ cheeks, and he draws his hand from Erik’s chest to his own.

“Here?” he asks, trailing fingers over the pale skin.

“That’s a start.” Erik says. “Over, to the left – right there.”

Charles’ fingers rest on one flat nipple. “Stroke it.” He traces a small circle, light and teasing, and Erik can feel the shiver as gooseflesh breaks out across the boy’s chest.

“Is it as sensitive as it looks? You’ll have to give it a pinch for me – no, not like that, harder.” Erik says as the boy’s thumb and forefinger close too gently on the stiff peak. Charles bites his lip, but his expression isn’t pained.

“Good. Now the other one…” Charles repeats the strokes on the other side, then the sharp pinch that makes worry at his lip.

At Erik’s direction, he trails his fingers over his collar bone, down his arms, across his ribs. If a touch doesn’t elicit the reaction Erik wants, he makes Charles do it again, more lightly this time, or firmer, or digging his clean nails into his own skin. He can see the boy’s trousers tenting with each new order, and he fights the urge to cup the thick bulge.

“Now straight down from here.” he commands softly, watching Charles’ hand travel down his stomach and over his left hip. He circles over the bone, making a soft sound as Erik orders him lower, to his thigh. There he makes the boy rub firmly down the muscled leg, each stroke bringing him closer to the space between his thighs.

Charles’ face is beginning to shine with sweat; his pupils are blown, eyes glazed with want as he allows his hand to travel everywhere but where he wishes.

“Should I stop there, Charles?”

The boy shakes his head, face flushed.

“I can’t hear you. What should I make you touch next?”

“You bastard,” Charles whispers, biting his lip hard.

“I won’t make you touch me, Charles.”

Charles' hand moves to cup Erik's jaw, eyes fixed wide and intently on his mouth. “But you won’t stop me, will you?” he asks softly.

“Perhaps not. But Shaw gave _you_ to _me_ , I believe, and not the other way around.”

Charles sighs, still staring at Erik’s lips.

“I want to touch my cock.”

Erik chuckles, satisfied. “Then take those trousers off. First the button, yes, and now the zipper – but don’t touch yet. That’s cheating.”

Charles’ eyes narrow in irritation, but he obeys, raising his hips to shimmy out of the garment. The trousers pool on the floor, leaving Charles bare to Erik’s eyes.

The boy wears nothing under the trousers, which doesn’t surprise him. His cock is flushed with blood, rising proudly from between his legs. Erik examines his prize at leisure, from the lightly muscled legs to the parted lips. When he meets Charles’ eyes, they are fixed on him, hot and impatient for the next order.

“I want a better view; cup it for me. Yes, like that.” Charles groans at the touch of fingers on his flesh, but the loose grip doesn’t satisfy. “Definitely passable. Show me, how do you touch yourself when you’re alone?”

The hand grips the base of Charles’ cock firmly, stroking slowly upward. At the end, his thumb drags over the glans, and his eyes flutter shut.

“I see,” Erik says, feeling himself stir under Charles’ thigh. “Do that again – ah, not so fast. Slower, like before. You’ll want that hand to be wet, though.” He points from Charles’ hand to his mouth, and the boy licks the palm of his hand, watching Erik as he does it. Each finger enters his mouth in turn, trailing coyly over his bottom lip.

If Erik has his way, that blank look will never cross Charles’ face again. At least not where he is concerned.

Finally he lets Charles grasp his prick again, skin sliding wetly through his fingers. Erik can see the difference immediately in the way Charles’ brow furrows, his back arching against the table. The boy’s fingers stroke in rhythm with Erik’s voice, as if he knows instinctively what Erik wants with each pull.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Erik asks, making the boy trail his other hand over his nipples.

“It could – _ohhh_ … it could be better.”

“How?”

“You could be fucking me.” Charles murmurs, head tilting back to expose his throat.

“Is that what you want?” Erik ignores his cock’s interest in the matter, though he doubts the boy can ignore the evidence digging into his backside.

“Yes – _ah_ –“ Charles licks his lips. “Please do.”

“Stop, then. Let go.”

Charles obeys slowly, his breath coming in pants.

“I’m sure there’s lubricant somewhere. Bring it to me.”

Charles slides from his lap onto unsteady feet, heading through what Erik imagines is the bedroom door. There’s no sound of fumbling as a drawer opens, and Erik wonders how many men Shaw has sent Charles here with. How many of them Charles _asked_ politely for their cocks, in his very English way.

When Charles returns, Erik pats his lap, and the boy climbs on without hesitation, thighs straddling Erik’s own. The boy’s heat radiates through Erik’s clothing.

Erik waves a hand at his crotch, leaning back deep in his chair. Charles’ lips are parted as he opens the belt, pops the button, and lowers the zipper. The hand that frees Erik’s cock is firm and confident.

It takes a great deal of control to keep his voice level, almost bored, as he tells Charles to spread the lubricant on his cock. The boy takes his time about it, fingers tracing the head delicately, as if he could memorize every bit of skin. His strokes continue even after he’s coated Erik’s prick.

“Now take what you want.” Erik instructs. “Fuck yourself for me.”

Charles settles one hand on Erik’s shoulder, wrapping the other around the base of his cock as he lowers himself slowly. He opens just as gradually, taking Erik a centimeter at a time. Erik’s fists clench in an effort to stop himself from seizing the boy’s hips and driving him _down_. They’re both breathing hard by the time Charles has taken all of it.

“Does it hurt?” Erik asks, more from curiosity than concern.

“N-no.” Erik reaches up to touch him for the first time since they began: pulling off the band that holds Charles’ hair from his face. The brown waves flow over the boy’s neck and shoulders, brushing over his chest and arms.

“Now up again.”

Erik can feel Charles’ body trying to grip him as he slides up, perfectly slick and tight. At his encouragement, Charles lowers himself a second time, more eagerly. His breath hitches at one spot, and he squirms to brush it again. Erik’s hands find their way to Charles’ hips, pushing just hard enough to remind Charles to come down again.

They move together now, Charles’ head falling back, Erik’s fingers clenching on his hips with each stroke. As the sounds torn from Charles’ throat grow more desperate, sensations strike Erik: _sweat breaking across his bare chest, muscles straining in his thighs, thick cock sliding sweetly into him –_

“What -?”

“S-sorry,” Charles groans, furrowing his brow – and the phantom sensations disappear. The boy moves more carefully now, as if afraid to distract himself again.

If Erik had any doubts about Charles wanting him, they are gone. His lip curls in a smirk as he wraps firm fingers around the boy’s cock.

 _Ah!_ The cry comes both inside and out of his skull. _Never thought it would feel like –_

 _\- Sebastian’s favorite, but Sebastian never had him like this –_

 _Too much – going to come –_

“Do it,” Erik whispers, sliding his hand in a tight grip. The boy’s face twists almost painfully through the strokes, and Erik can _feel_ the orgasm that breaks over him as if it were his own, hot and bright enough to drown out the world.

Charles doesn’t stop, though, even as his face goes slack, rocking steadily against Erik’s lap.

“Come for me, Mr. Lehnsherr – Erik – “ he murmurs, moving faster with each stroke. Erik’s hands bring him down harder, making their flesh slap against each other. “Please – “

The boy’s hands tangle in Erik’s short hair, crushing their mouths together. Erik groans into the boy’s mouth, meeting Charles’ tongue with his own, Charles lips with his teeth. Charles sucks and licks and bites with the same ferocity, the touch too primal to be called a kiss.

Charles’ mouth slides away as he slides down Erik’s cock even faster, pleading softly, _please, inside me – just for me –_

They cry out as one when Erik spills inside him, fingers crushing tight enough to bruise, mouth latching onto the boy’s shoulder. The boy collapses against him, head buried in the crook of Erik’s neck as they both remember to breathe.

“Thank you,” Charles finally says against his throat.

Erik wets his lips, flexing his fingers against Charles’ hips. The joints ache from gripping so hard, and the boy will doubtlessly have bruises.

“It’s been a long day.” he says over the boy’s shoulder. “You can stay if you want, but I need my sleep.”

Charles straightens at the dismissal. Carefully he pulls himself off of Erik’s spent cock, then slides to his feet. A flush stains his face as he realizes that naked and debauched as he is, Erik is still fully dressed, his face composed as if he had been reading a newspaper. Erik takes a moment to tuck himself into his pants before he follows the boy into the bedroom.

Charles settles on the opposite side of the bed, as far away as he can get without danger of falling off. Erik has never let a boy or woman share his bed afterwards, but no need for Charles to know that.

“What will you tell him tomorrow?” the boy asks in the darkness.

Erik strips efficiently with his back to the bed, ignoring the eyes he knows are on him.

“What do you think?”

Finally they lay side by side in the darkness, not bothering to close their eyes. Neither will sleep for a long time, and neither will pretend; but they don't look at each other, either.

It's going to be a long night.


	2. Chapter 2

Erik wakes abruptly to sunlight streaming through a porthole and over the clean white sheets, reflecting gold on Charles’ hair and lashes. Morning on Shaw’s ship; he never expected to see that. All his imaginings had left him dead on the floor or gone before Shaw’s men could raise an alarm.

Charles’ face holds his attention for a long moment. It puzzles him how the boy can look so relaxed, so safe, with Erik beside him.

“How much do you even know?” he murmurs. When Charles’ sleeping face fails to provide an answer, he sighs and climbs from the bed.

A quick shower clears his head. He ignores the plethora of soaps, oils, and other products he has no name for, lathering down with the least offensive white bar he can find. Ironic that this luxurious place is where he will end Shaw, or be ended. When he closes his eyes, he can still smell the smoke and filth of the camp.

Does Charles know already? The telepath showed no signs of knowing Erik’s thoughts last night despite clearly being able to reach them. But then, Erik had given no sign of his returning power either. Perhaps they both played their cards close to their chests.

How long will he have if Charles figures him out?

He shakes his head, turning off the tap. Speculation will only get him so far. He will have to take his chance when it comes, and no sooner.

When he slings a towel over his hips and leaves the shower, the bedroom his empty. The sheets are even smoothed over, the blanket tucked in as if no one had slept there. Folded at the foot of the bed he finds a coal black suit with matching turtleneck. To his disgust, the clothing is almost precisely his size.

He’s accepted one gift from Shaw; turning down another would be out of character. He leaves last night’s clothes on the floor, stopping only to retrieve his hated talisman. A flick of his fingers sends the coin into the pocket of his new trousers, a hard presence against his hip.

Years of training have given him a head for layouts; he has no difficulty finding Shaw’s office again. Sitting behind the desk isn’t Shaw, however, but a dark-haired man he doesn’t recognize. The man doesn’t greet him but stares with cold eyes. Erik tilts his chin up, returning the gaze levelly. It takes more than a third-rate flunky in a suit to rattle him, and he will be sure this man knows it.

Finally the other man nods his dark head, rising to his feet.

“The prodigal son returns.” he says, holding out a hand. “Riptide.”

“Lehnsherr.” Erik accepts, gripping the hand for a brief moment. The man’s handshake is firm but not overtly challenging.

“No codename?”

“Never needed one.”

Riptide nods. “The boss is busy this morning. He wants us to go over some plans for a job.” He mashes a button on the desk and a puff of smoke appears between them.

Erik has to hide the shock of recognition at the apple-red skin and sharp blue eyes. The mutant hasn’t scarcely changed since Charles' memory, save another scar seaming his face.

“Azazel at your service.”

“How fitting.”

The mutant shrugs his pinstriped shoulders. “Makes me hard to forget.”

Riptide pulls out a thick manila folder and spreads the contents over Shaw’s desk. Apparently the American CIA has been making efforts to track down mutants; their job is to ascertain how close they are to success. Over the weeks they’ve collected building layouts, staff records, telephone logs –

“Not easy to get.” Riptide assures them.

“Easier with the boy-whore to sweet-talk the phone company girls.”

If the men know about the previous night, their expressions give no sign.

“How long has he had the telepath? He was far more – discreet – in the old days.”

He remembers mistresses, from elegant generals’ wives to country girls with hollow cheeks from living hand-to-mouth. There had been a few fancy boys here and there, some no older than Erik when he’d come to live with Shaw, but no affair as flagrant as his open possession of Charles.

“Over a decade.” Azazel says with amusement. “Though the boss gets tired of him from time to time and picks up a girl for a few months.”

The two mutants trade sniggering remarks; apparently Shaw’s proclivities are a forgivable quirk, but Charles’ submissive role makes him fair game for jokes.

Erik tries to gauge Charles’ age – thirty at most? Shaw’s plaything for his entire adult life, and even if Erik had never been in Shaw’s bed, he knows how his mentor treats toys. He isn’t sure what surprises him more – that Charles has stayed so long, or that he isn’t already broken.

The mutants lose interest in their diversion and return to the mission. Azazel can get them behind the walls of the compound. Erik’s ability suits him to opening doors and disabling guards and cameras if need be.

“And you?” he asks Riptide.

“I cut a fine figure in a suit.” the mutant quips.

Azazel begins to describe the man’s utility in a fight, but someone raps on the door quietly and pulls it open.

Today Charles wears a white suit tailored close to his slim frame, with a blue silk tie knotted at his throat. A thick braid falls over his shoulder, still damp from the shower. His eyes graze over Erik’s face without meeting his gaze, and he greets the other men with a nod.

“Gentlemen.”

“Mr. X,” Azazel says with a smirk. “Sleep well?”

“Reasonably.” he answers, ignoring the jab. “How much have you explained to our guest?”

Soon they’re all absorbed in the mission again. Despite their joking, the men defer to Charles, nodding whenever he makes a suggestion. In return, Charles is respectful and listens to their ideas as well. Erik makes none of his own, only answering questions about how far his abilities can get them. He can tell from the lackeys' faces that they only half-believe him. Charles shows no doubt at all.

Their meeting lasts most of the morning. Riptide leaves first, citing a meeting with a contact. Azazel follows later, not bothering to give an excuse.

Leaving the two of them.

“Sebastian wants me to show you around the ship.” he says quietly.

“No double meanings there?”

Charles looks up at him for the first time that morning, smiles wryly. “I believe he actually wants you to know your way around the vessel."

There’s no offer in Charles’ smile, but neither is there rejection. If the previous night bothered him, he gives no sign.

“Then lead the way, Mr. X.”

Charles keeps Erik at an easy distance as he leads him around the ship, explaining more than he really wanted to know about the vessels workings. The boy has a greeting for everyone they pass, some casual, others more warm. When Erik asks, he reveals that Shaw charges him with hiring everyone on the ship, from the cook’s assistants to the sailors.

“Do you fire them as well?”

“Most of them leave of their own accord. With a fat bank account and no real recollection of where we were or what they did.”

Probably the telepath’s influence – Shaw would just as likely dump them overboard, rather than leave men alive with the slightest hint of his whereabouts. Erik doubts his indulgence has anything to do with personal reform, and more to do with keeping his favorite piece of ass content.

Charles gives him a sharp look but doesn’t say anything. Erik thinks very hard about the white-painted steel walls, the metallic humming that surrounds him at all times.

The rest of their tour is uneventful.

*

Erik sees neither hide nor hair of Shaw for the rest of the day, until Azazel arrives at his door that evening with a note inviting him for drinks in the captain’s suite. Charles showed him that door earlier, impossible to miss with the pair of armed guards posted at all times. He considers taking another shower, or slicking back his hair, or doing a hundred other things to waste time. He does none of them.

The guards let him in without a word, and he passes into a pointlessly opulent and empty foyer. Before he can decide which of several doors to open, a low groan comes from behind the door to Erik’s right. His blood runs cold.

Shaw is draped over a leather sofa, arms across the back, legs spread comfortably for the man at his feet. Charles stiffens and makes as if to pull away, but Shaw’s hand tightens in his hair, pulling him so close Erik hears a choke. His fingers pet Charles’ scalp hard, almost kneading.

“So glad you could make it, Erik.” Shaw says, looking for all the world as if he were at a business meeting.

“What do you want, Shaw?”

“I’m not _Herr Doktor_ anymore? Shame.” His eyes slide closed and he sighs in appreciation. He lets Erik wait several moments before bothering to say anything at all. “Did you make him suck you off last night?”

Erik coldly contemplates driving the coin through Shaw’s head then and there, wonders if Charles could even stop him in time. Maybe the coin would be driven through his own skull. He weighs the importance of stopping this monster, his reason to keep hunting through the years, against his need to be out of this room.

“It didn’t seem necessary.”

“Yes, I’ve seen your little marks. I never thought you’d be a kinky bastard, my boy.”

So Charles had brought stories; of course he had. Maybe the boy had even laughed at seeing Erik lose control, give into temptation like every other man Shaw brought in.

 _‘Thank you,’ Charles had breathed against his neck, nuzzling the damp skin. His weight in Erik’s lap was relaxed, trusting, as if Erik had given him the greatest gift of his life._

Stupid. Erik hadn’t gotten this far by trusting every pretty creature who’d let him fuck them.

“You should try it. Charles.”

The boy pulls back from Shaw’s lap, settling back on his knees. He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of one hand, unself-consciously.

“I’m here to follow your cause, Shaw, not play games with your pet whore. If this is all you had to say –“

“Erik, this isn’t just about the goal. It’s about the team.” Shaw says rationally, as if his cock weren’t projecting from his trousers. A great effort keeps Erik’s eyes on the man’s face and away from the wet, grotesque sight.

“You’re like a son to me. What kind of father would I be if I didn’t want to watch you enjoy my toys?”

Calm. There’s no point in going this far only to get himself killed in a fit of squeamishness. He manages to settle in a plush chair, knees spread just slightly.

Charles doesn’t need to be told to cross the short distance on his knees, nor to settle his hands on Erik’s thighs. His eyes don’t meet Erik’s as he reaches for his belt buckle.

 _You weren’t so shy last night,_ Erik thinks scornfully. Without the boy, he is alone with Shaw getting his cock sucked. The near-solitude is enough to gag him.

 _Is that what you want?_ Charles asks silently, fingers skimming gently from Erik’s knees to his hips.

 _Have you been listening this whole time?_

 _I try not to. It’s much – louder – when you think of me. Like hearing one’s name across a crowded room._ The boy’s very British embarrassment is clear even in his head – not to be on his knees opening Erik’s trousers, but to have breached other barriers unasked.

 _Do you want this?_ Erik asks as clever fingers grasp his cock.

 _You? Yes._ The voice carries no sense of shame at the pronouncement. _But not when you clearly want to turn and run. I’m…sorry for this._

 _I’m not being forced._ Erik thinks, angered at the thought of Shaw’s toy feeling sorry for _him_. Charles’ fingers stroke him, earning a half-hearted salute, but he knows he will lose it if he looks up at Shaw. If only he could relax – remember some more pleasant time –

But Erik has never dwelt on old fucks. Sex was always something to do and have done with; jam his cock into someone, and repay them in pleasure or cash. No encounter stands out from a string of nameless bodies and faces

 _Charles’ hands are fisted in his hair, and before Erik can speak, their mouths are crushed together, lips parting helplessly for tongues and teeth and slick, wet warmth. The boy is pressed so tight against him he might be trying to rub through him, his fingers stroking hard down the side of Erik’s neck, his thighs parting to straddle one leg._

Erik’s eyes fly open, and his cock is no longer soft and useless in Charles’ hand, but throbbing for attention. Charles leans forward to finally lap at the firm flesh, and Erik’s hand fists in the boy’s hair.

 _What the hell was that?_

Charles’ eyes are innocent as his tongue traces a line up the underside of his cock.

 _That,_ he says smugly, _is what would happen if we were alone. You seemed to like it better than thinking about –_ His eyes dart to the side, where Erik doesn’t have to look to know Shaw is watching them intently.

 _Does every man Shaw whores you out to earn this treatment?_

Erik feels a flash of something at once sharp and lingering, like a bruise being struck hard, and Charles’ mind closes to him. At the same time, the boy’s lips finally close around his cock, and he groans without meaning to.

Shaw’s chuckle rings low in his ears, and Erik realizes Charles’ eyes are absolutely and perfectly blank. He sucks Erik with the skill of one who was born to do so, who would love nothing more than to have Erik shoot down his throat. But his face is as perfectly unreadable as the night before.

For a moment he wants to grab Charles by his too-long hair until he chokes against Erik’s hips, hands scrabbling to push back just so he can breathe. He wouldn’t keep that empty look for long. But Erik would be no better than Shaw, manipulating them both into a sick spectacle. His fingers stroke a lock of hair from Charles’ face.

 _That was… uncalled for._ Erik attempts. _I apologize._

A flicker of curiosity licks his mind, a hope so small Erik could barely call it such.

 _Let me see again._

Charles twists his tongue wickedly, and _He sucks and nips Erik’s throat as if he were starving, knowing he’ll leave marks for all to see, loving each groan and whimper from below him. His hands rake through Erik’s hair, leaving him every bit as mussed and breathless as Charles had been before._

Erik swallows hard, hands clenching in an effort to stop from thrusting up into Charles’ mouth. The boy makes a sound between humming and mirth, and it doesn’t help his control at all.

He knows how his hands would rove Charles’ body, rough and daring him to try more. His thighs would wrap around the boy’s waist, lifting his hips up hard, sliding against the stiff prick until Charles rutted against him desperately, whimpering against his neck.

 _Charles would taste each inch of his skin as if it were a new dish, reveling in the clean scent of Erik’s flesh, the soaring pulse in his wrists, pink flush of the skin he bites, and the helpless clench of Erik’s hole around his tongue –_

Erik’s mind balks at the act he’s never considered, but his cock has no such reservations, especially not when Charles sucks him down to the root.

“Magnificent,” Shaw breathes, far too close. Erik opens his eyes to find the man kneeling behind Charles, hands on the boy’s hips. He strips Charles below the waist, making him look somehow more vulnerable with his shirt drifting around his bare thighs, rucked up against his back as Shaw grabs hold.

Charles whimpers when the man enters him without warning, his eyes squeezing shut.

 _No, Charles, think of me._ Erik commands. He sends the image of himself between Charles’ splayed thighs, swallowing the boy’s cock nice and slow and hard. He’d rub one slick finger across the boy’s hole, sliding in so slowly the boy’s hips would rise to meet him, and he’d stroke and tease until Charles _demanded_ another finger, caught between the urge to be fucked and the need to meet the slick warmth of Erik’s mouth.

Charles groans around Erik’s cock, and Shaw crows in satisfaction, whispering vile things Erik barely registers, how Charles had been trained half his life for this moment, how he would fuck the boy raw, how they should pass him around to every man on board; how Charles found his true purpose in making men come.

Erik thinks inadvertently of Charles’ serious face as they planned the mission, the deferent looks on Riptide and Azazel’s faces. Smirk as they wish to about Charles’ place in Shaw’s bed, they know that in a confrontation, Charles had their backs. That of anyone on this boat, Charles is the one they fear to cross.

 _Truly?_

 _I’ve never seen a power like yours._ Not in the handful of failed experiments Erik witnessed with Shaw, nor anywhere else since; those were parlor tricks compared to what Charles could do. _If I had you at my side –_

 _Don’t say that!_ Charles’ protest is panicked, but he can’t disguise the thread of longing in it, which Erik throws back at him. He can picture it so easily; Shaw broken on the floor, the ship left to rust at the bottom of the sea. Erik’s purpose in life accomplished, and them free to go wherever their feet took them. They would be safe anywhere, whether Charles stopped threats before they approached or Erik ended them brutally.

Charles’ movements grow more desperate, his brow furrowing in concentration as he tries to distract Erik with lips and tongue. Erik can’t stop the noises such treatment wrings from his throat, but he refuses to stop pressing.

 _You know you want it, Charles._

Charles shoves memories in his face, thoughts of happier times. The first time Sebast – _Shaw_ kisses him, fingers cupping his chin. He accepts Charles’ embarrassed protests with charming ease - until Charles comes to him the next night.

Raven’s worried face when she sees the acceptance letter, and Shaw’s hand settling on her shoulder, telling her she’s worth every penny.

The first time Charles looks over the ship and recognizes it as _home._

Erik pulls back from the thoughts, leaving him with nothing but the room. Shaw’s hips jerk roughly against Charles’, and one of his hands has disappeared under the boy, making him cry out frantically around Erik’s cock.

“What are you waiting for, my boy?” Shaw asks, fingers digging roughly into the boy’s bruised hip.

God help him, Erik is so far gone that even Shaw’s voice can’t stop him, close enough he can _taste_ it. He lets that feeling spill into Charles, the satisfaction mixed with sharp longing, the pleasure that’s close to perfect, dragging him closer and closer to a precipice he doesn’t want to cross yet.

Charles' mind surrounds him as the boy brings him closer with lips and tongue and the barest edge of teeth. He feels Charles’ satisfaction as his own, knows the erection throbbing between his legs has far more to do with him than anything Shaw has done.

 _That’s a dangerous thought, my friend,_ Charles tells him, but it’s swallowed up in the rush of pleasure, white-hot release that has him dead to the world for a few moments.

When he comes back to himself, Shaw is still rutting away, Charles panting against Erik’s thigh.

 _Do it for me,_ Erik whispers, wishing the hands on Charles were his. _I want to see your face._ The startled blue eyes, the pink-flushed cheeks, the white teeth digging into the boy’s own lip – Erik remembers it all vividly, feels Charles startle at the image.

His eyes bore into Charles’ as Shaw fucks him, the pale face pained at the edges, his mouth open and gasping. Erik focuses hard on what he wants Charles to feel, how he would grip the boy’s cock in his fingers and stroke until Charles begged him to stop, how he would do _anything_ to see his face slacken with pleasure –

With a near-painful cry, Charles slumps against Erik’s lap, his breath hot against his hip. Shaw doesn’t last long afterward, his face reddening as he shouts and goes still. He gives Charles’ hips another squeeze before he gets up, making the boy wince at the pressure on bruises old and new.

“Bet you’d have never left if we’d had _that_ before.” Shaw muses, settling back onto the couch. Erik sees traces of blood before he tucks himself back into his pants, and he wants to strangle the smug look off Shaw’s face.

“I could use a cigar.” Shaw says, and Charles pries himself from Erik’s lap. swallowing thickly. He pulls his trousers up, tucking his shirt in over the mess on his belly, and opens a carved wooden box.

“My boy?”

Erik shakes his head. “Riptide wants to go over some building plans in the morning.”

“Ever the hard worker.” He smiles at Erik while Charles cuts the tip off a richly colored cigar.

“Someone has to be.”

Shaw beckons Charles to sit close to him, his arm bringing the boy in tight. Charles turns his face against Shaw’s collar bone before Erik turns to leave.

“No rest for the wicked,” Shaw calls behind him.

 _Not until I put you in your grave._

If Charles hears the thought, he doesn’t correct it.


	3. Chapter 3

With Erik on board, Shaw doesn’t hesitate to push the mission up. The next few days are a flurry of activity, from tailors’ visits to repeated rounds of studying faces, names, and floor plans. Most intriguing to Erik is a small building outside the facility, white-painted steel hosting an unknown device. Even Charles, who knows more about science than any of them save Shaw, is flummoxed when Erik asks.

During that time, Shaw doesn’t send for him, or push Charles into his bed again. They see each other in the halls, at meals, during planning sessions, but the boy has a surprising aptitude for compartmentalizing, keeping the same respectful distance from Erik that he does from Riptide and Azazel. The empty look returns to his eyes, though, and Erik doesn’t try to rid him of it.

Charles is the key to his plans, Erik has decided, to getting out alive. If he can just find the right buttons to push, he can appeal to morals he himself lacks.

Some part of him protests the inclusion of the telepath, wonders if he’s finally becoming soft. If those wide blue eyes are sucking him down the path of no return, the same path he feels certain will end Shaw. If his anger for Charles isn’t just at a waste of talent and a situation that reminds him coldly of his own. He grew up with that same mix of affection and neglect, treated alternately as a lap dog and a lab rat. He just never convinced himself there was love behind it.

Charles _can’t_ be ignorant of Erik’s disloyalty. Even as he struggles to suppress his more obviously mutinous thoughts around the telepath, nothing can smother the flash of disgust when Shaw pats his back or offers him a cigar.

Staring at Azazel’s waiting hand, he wonders what game they’re all really playing.

*

They leave Azazel skulking just inside the perimeter; no amount of make-up will touch his red skin, and Charles doesn’t want to risk using his power to cloak the mutant when a split-second slip would give them away so easily. Shaw leans in close to murmur something that makes the scarlet-skinned man nod fervently.

The locks are child’s play to Erik, though he is careful to open doors with his hands in case someone waits on the other side. Charles keeps the agents’ minds off their presence; eyes skim over their faces and glaze over as they walk past.

Erik steals a glance at the telepath. Charles’ fingers dig into one temple, only relaxing when they are alone. Controlling three or more agents at once doesn’t seem easy – but it doesn’t seem anywhere near his limit, either. How Shaw has the gall to risk the telepath turning on him, over and over again, Erik has no idea.

All of them know the route by now, ingrained once in paper and ink and now made real. They find the laboratory with no real effort, though Charles stops short behind the glass door.

The frown of concentration melts from his face, replaced with startled pleasure. Riptide raises a cool eyebrow.

“They – they’ve got one of us!”

Shaw looks like the cat that got the cream. “That could be way more useful than a handful of files. Is he in there? Alone?”

“Yes,” Charles says, staring at the door but not opening it.

“You know what to do, my boy.”

Charles’ hand rises, but he can’t seem to bring himself to take the next step, as if afraid of what they might encounter. Erik pushes a bit, and the door swings open on its own.

Charles looks at him, and only him, for a moment before stepping through.

“Hank McCoy?”

A lanky young man looks up from a microscope at his desk, eyes wide behind thick glasses. “Yes. Can I help you?”

Charles grins. “Quite likely. Tell me, do these G-men know you’re a mutant?”

The boy’s face goes pale. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, but you do.” Shaw says, following Charles through the door. “You’ve always known you’re different, _special_. We’re here to show you that you’re not alone.”

“You’ve got the wrong guy. I’m just a benchtop guy.” Erik wonders how the boy lived this long when even he doesn’t look like he buys the lie.

“Riptide,” Shaw says calmly.

The mutant holds both hands palm up, and suddenly a breeze stirs the room, ruffling their clothing, blowing papers off tables, knocking a box of glass slides to the floor. The pages in Hank’s notebook come free with a rip, swirling in a vortex over Riptide’s head – until he releases them, and the ruined pages float to the ground around them.

McCoy’s mouth falls open, taking in the sight with bewildered eyes. Finally he swallows.

“I – mine isn’t all that great. It’s ugly, really.” the boy says, toeing off his shoes one at a time. He stoops to peel off a pair of argyle socks, setting them neatly inside the shoes, and his meaning is clear immediately: feet like an ape’s, the toes strong and flexible. He twitches them experimentally.

“You’re beautiful.” Shaw tells him decisively, and Erik wants to stab his black heart for the meaning the boy is too naïve to catch. “Every mutation serves its purpose, and yours will, too. I want to offer you a job.”

“I – I already have a job, mister.”

“You could never be satisfied serving lesser men. Men you can’t even trust with your true nature – and you’ve known all along you can’t trust them, haven’t you?” Shaw steps closer with each word, his voice dropping low and intimate.

“What do you want me for?” McCoy asks, chewing his lip.

“There’s a revolution coming, my friend, and I want you to be part of it. Just like Charles,” he says, gesturing, “and Riptide, and even Erik here. The sun has set on the age of men, and it dawns on a newer and better race.”

“We’re still _human._ ” McCoy protests. “Once they learn about us, realize we’re not a threat -  they can accept us.”

“Of course.” Shaw concedes, raising an eyebrow. “At best, you’ll live like a Negro, waiting for the majority to embrace you– and at worst, you’ll be a rat in your own lab. Not a valued lab rat, either.”

“They wouldn’t _do_ that,” McCoy protests, but the flash of fear in his blue eyes is painfully obvious.

“You know they would.”

McCoy looks down, but Shaw closes the distance between them, lifting his chin with one hand.

“There are two sides in this war, my boy: mine and theirs. Which one are you on?”

McCoy draws back, his discomfort palpable. “I’m – I’m a scientist, not a radical. I can’t join your revolution.”

“Then for now, you’ll get out of our way.” At Shaw’s gesture, Riptide moves to a filing cabinet, removing handfuls of large manila folders.

“What the - ? Hey!”

“He’ll forget he saw us.” Charles says quietly.

McCoy’s face is flushed as he grabs Riptide’s arm. “That’s my _research_ , years of data – you can’t just –“

A gust of wind knocks the boy clear into the wall, where he falls with a low moan.

“That wasn’t necessary!” Charles shouts.

Riptide shoots him a bored look, hardly pausing as he rifles through the files.

“He’s too foolish to follow his own kind.” Shaw says. “He deserves what he gets.”

“He just needs _time –_ “

“I didn’t bring you here to argue.” Shaw snaps.

“And I didn’t bring you here to hurt innocent men!”

Shaw grabs McCoy’s microscope with both hands, throwing it hard enough to snap the cord. The machine crashes with a sound of broken glass and clanging metal, and the exposed wire jumps into Shaw’s palms. Instead of shocking him, the severed end sparks and hisses inside his cupped hands, which thrum with the energy.

“This is what happens to those who don’t know which side they’re on.”

With a smile, he turns his open palms to McCoy.

The scientist screams, head jerking back hard as his body spasms. Shaw doesn’t let up, watching dispassionately as the boy loses control of every muscle in his body, and a charred scent singes their nostrils.

By the time he lowers his hands, no one expects McCoy to move again.

He doesn’t.

The silence roars in their ears as no one moves. Shaw’s eyes are riveted on Charles, daring him to speak, to challenge him, to share the scientist’s fate.

Finally Shaw raises an eyebrow. “Well, what are you waiting for? We need to get those files before someone knows we’re here.”

Riptide begins shoveling files into a black duffel bag.

 _You see what kind of man you follow._ Erik thinks deliberately. _Is this really what you want?_

 _Shut up._

Erik projects the image of Shaw pinned to the metal desk, ending him here and now, leaving his broken body next to the hapless scientist. Riptide can hang for all Erik cares, or Charles could bring him with them; it would be _their_ choice.

 _SHUT UP!_

Erik stifles a gasp at the sudden pain in his head, the piercing throb that he knows is purely mental, but still enough to knock him off his feet. When he can see again, Charles is wiping his eyes on the back of his sleeve, and Riptide is handing him one of the duffel bags.

“No use overstaying our welcome.” Shaw says. Charles pushes ahead of him, ready to clear the way. They don’t hide the scientist’s body. With Erik acting on the cameras and Charles on the agents’ minds, they don’t have to.

Azazel asks no questions when they find him, Shaw bristling with anger, Charles staring emptily around them, Erik and Riptide simply staying out of their way. The mutant offers one hand to Erik, and he is grateful no one reaches for his.

The clock is winding down faster than he thought.


	4. Chapter 4

Charles stalks away the moment they’re on the ship, not bothering to look at or speak to anyone. Anger rolls off the telepath in waves as he passes them, intentionally or not.

Shaw’s face bears an expression Erik knows well, though he’s never been a bystander to it before. It’s the look that says someone has upset the doctor’s personal sense of order, and he means to make them pay heavily for doing so. He doesn’t bother matching the telepath’s furious pace, simply strides after him with that cold look in his eyes.

The tableau doesn’t seem to affect Shaw’s lackeys. The moment the two are out of earshot, Riptide mutters, “Lovers’ spat.”

 “Happen often?”Erik asks with feigned disinterest.

“The boy has scruples.” the mutant says. “He’ll forget them when he can’t walk right for a week.”

“You don’t think the scientist was a waste?”

Riptide shrugs. “Not my job to question the boss.”

Just following orders. Erik has to choke down a laugh, wondering if things ever change. He finally makes a grunt that could pass for agreement and heads for his suite, duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

McCoy’s death is regrettable, but Erik couldn’t have hoped for a more ripe opportunity to fall into his lap. The boy is already furious with Shaw, who will undoubtedly attempt to break him of it. Perhaps a kind word (even if Erik lacks experience with such things), a show of support, a reminder that Charles owes nothing to the monster he calls a lover…

Or perhaps Shaw will be foolish enough to put the telepath out of commission himself. Erik’s mouth goes dry at the thought, and he doesn’t know if it’s anticipation or – something else, but he won’t let it _be_ anything else, aside from an idle hope that somehow his target will make his life that much easier.

He recalls the weight of Charles in his lap suddenly, the boy drowsing contentedly against his neck until Erik coldly woke him from his daze. But it’s not a relevant thought.

 _STOP, needtobreathe, hurts, stop, NOW  -_

His throat closes hard, and his legs crumple uselessly beneath him, hands gripping the stupid plush carpet. It takes too many panicked breaths to realize it’s not _his_ pain making him shake, not _his_ betrayal and quickly mounting panic.

But he knows whose it is.

When he can stand again, he empties the duffel bag over his bed, ready to get to work. There’s nothing else he can do.

*

When the knock comes hours later, Erik ignores it, still poring over the files. Someone fumbles uselessly with the knob, making it creak back and forth, until a voice says, _Please. I know you’re there._

Sighing, Erik flicks open the lock with a gesture.

Charles’ hair hangs limply over his face, and he reaches to turn off the light as he enters. The bedside lamp illuminates Charles enough to show the halting steps, dazed and pained at once. He settles too carefully on the edge of the bed.

 _It wasn’t always like this._ Charles projects, as if he doesn’t trust his voice.

Erik watches him without saying a word. He’s never been one to offer sweet words in the face of foolishness, and the words he wants to say won’t help.

 _I knew he had done things. Terrible things._

“Did you know?” Erik curls a fist over his chest. “Or did you _know_?”

 _I thought – God, I wanted to think – he_ told _me he did such awful things, but that was behind him now. That he held back for my sake now, and for the cause._

“Did he tell you what he did to me?” he asks in a cold, quiet voice.

 _That’s exactly – please, Erik._ Charles’ inner voice is soft, pleading. _I have to know if he’s the same after all these years. If he’s really trying, or –_

“Men like Shaw don’t _try!”_ Erik snarls, grabbing Charles by his collar. The boy’s head snaps back, revealing a bruise on one cheek, so deep it’s nearly red, sharp right angles like the corner of a table. More bruises mar the smooth whiteness of his throat. “They rationalize for your benefit, they cut cruelty with false affection, but they never _change._ ”

Charles’ eyes are steady, his eyes still that deep blue but damp and red at the edges, and he doesn’t flinch.

“Please, Erik.” he whispers. “Let me see for myself. Like you did.”

“You couldn’t handle it.” Erik tells him, utterly ruthless. “You’re still a little rich boy, thinking yourself tough for a few weeks on the street, until you latched onto the first man who could sweet-talk you out of your – “

 _Her sobs have quieted, but he isn’t done yet. The metal around him is cold and dead, but he can feel the terror threatening to burst the man’s mind, see the sick panic as he opens  his own fly, pulls out limp and filthy flesh with one hand._

 _The other holds a  knife._

 _“I’m not going to hurt you.” Charles says in a hollow voice. “Just do what you think you deserve.”_

 _A whimper escapes the man as the knife traces slow, teasing circles down his chest and belly, sometimes flat against his skin, other times nearly pricking his skin._

 _The knife is already slick and red from the man’s friends, who lie unmoving on the ground. His eyes are squeezed shut now, unwilling to face the reality of what he is about to do, or to bear Charles’ gaze searing into his._

 _“Go on, then. Do it.”_

 _Charles’ power can’t stop the man’s screams, but he doesn’t want it to. He makes the man cut slowly, a hairsbreadth at a time, and he knows exactly how much it hurts, feels the exact second the man relinquishes hope: when he severs the last thin sliver of skin._

 _Charles lets him go then, lets the inhuman keening wash over him, lets the man curl in and bleed on himself, and it still isn’t enough for him. It will never be enough._

Erik takes in a sharp breath, startled at the sudden change from _here_ and _himself_ to _Charles_ mixed with the criminal, and back again. The telepath’s memories have their own flavor, branded into his mind indelibly, until he would know them anywhere. Charles breathes hard beside him, a fine tremor spreading over his frame as he stares down at his knees.

Erik doesn’t have to say he’s been proven wrong; it hangs in the thinning air between them.

When they can look at each other again,  he nods just slightly, wondering if his memories will be so vivid, or if the tangibility of Charles’ own memories comes with being a telepath. Anything that real might just kill him. But he doesn’t have long to worry.

 _The scent of_ Schokolade _is so strong Erik can taste it from across the room, his mouth watering at memories of bittersweet richness melting on his tongue. His belly cramps tightly, and his head spins with a mixture of long-suppressed hunger and pain from his bruised skull._

 _The_ Doktor _knows he wants it, but even scared and sick with longing, he knows better than to ask, knows those with power will flaunt it just for the pleasure of denying the powerless. He refuses to play that game; not until he knows what the man’s after._

 _When the doctor tells him gently to move the coin, Erik can’t help but steal a glance to his right. He’s been in an operating theater once, and it hadn’t looked anything like that. There had been far fewer things to cut and saw and strip flesh from bone. Stranger still, they weren’t near a battlefield now; the only people to benefit from an operating theater were the guards, or –_

 _People like Erik._

 _His blood runs cold as_ Silber _as he reaches eagerly with both hands, straining to reach. But something’s missing; the coin doesn’t call to him the way that vicious gate had, doesn’t catch the spark in his blood._

 _The doctor looks almost sorry as he calls in the guards, but Erik sees the smile lurking in the set of his mouth, ready to unfurl. At first he hopes they’re sending him back, that the gate was a fluke, and he and Mama can join the huddling wet masses. But now it’s a_ game _to Herr Doktor,_ _a challenge as simple as any schoolyard play._

Eins.

Alles ist gut, _Mama says,_ Everything’s fine, _and he knows she’s lying even has he loves her for saying it. At most she hopes to_ make _the words true by saying them, and his chest tightens with fear for her; he can’t stop stealing glances, as if she’ll disappear at any time._

Zwei.

 _But he has to move the coin, and he can_ feel _it wanting to come,_ alles ist gut, alles ist gut, _it has to move, but it_ isn’t _, why did he have to move the gate to begin with?_

 _Had it even been him?_

 _He pours every ounce of strength into the thought of the coin, its smooth edges and the hated symbol, and_ alles ist gut -

Drei.

 _The shot deafens him for a long moment, and the smell of gunpowder sears his nostrils._

That’s it _, he thinks. They’ve killed Mama, and she held the world up on her shoulders; Erik can’t have long to go without her, because that’s how the world works._

 _Erik thought he’d known anger well. His eyes had burned fiercely when children began to point and snicker at the star on his chest. He’d been outraged when the curfews started, and he’d seen his father scurry home like a beaten dog, afraid of men half his age. He’d dreamed of murdering the soldiers who looted his home, who drove his family onto the train like cattle._

 _The rage that floods his chest now makes all those feelings pale in comparison._

 _It swells inside him as he screams, and the air thrums with magnetism, every unyielding metal thing flying to his aid, or crumpling, or trembling fiercely where it stood. The guards cry in fear as their helmets crush their skulls in with a sick wet crack, but Erik’s fury only grows with their pitiful noise, and he needs more. The doctor‘s tidy surgery becomes a war zone, a glittering wreck, as he throws in every ounce of newfound strength._

 _Finally he runs out of breath, of strength, and the room grows very still. Erik doesn’t remember the doctor until the man’s hand is warm and heavy on his shoulder, making bile rise in his throat._

 _The man couldn’t be more delighted at Erik’s outburst, ignoring the painful death that could – should – have been his, the ruins of Erik’s childhood around him, the unspoken fact that_ this is not right. _But Herr Doktor has the medicine to make Erik strong, he promises:_ anger _and_ pain _. His grip is paternal as he tucks the coin in Erik’s hand, as he guides him through the ruins of his surgery._

 _Erik bites his tongue until he tastes blood in his mouth, sharp as a copper coin._

*

The memories are just as sharp as living them over again, though he knows some details are missing. Sometimes he doesn’t remember where he was during an event, who else was there, and the scenery blurs into the background, reducing the scene to himself and his tormentor, his teacher, his creator.

The darkest points in his life are reduced to a vicious spectacle, and Erik can’t close his eyes to get away from it, to remember that he is over thirty years old now, his body strong from years of training, and he has power enough to stop bullets if he tries. None of that seems to matter when he’s strapped to the table again, with that hated voice whispering platitudes and encouragements in his ringing ears.

He never thinks to ask Charles to stop.

And Charles doesn’t. Not until he’s taken Erik clear to the night he escaped, his first free breath driving deep into his lungs, his heart pounding as he _runs_ into the night, knowing it’s the last thing Herr Doktor Schmidt expects after all these years, that if he stays another day there will be no more of Erik left to bend or mold or break.

His eyes are fixed on the ceiling when he finally comes to, gasping open-mouthed, skin hot and covered in sweat. He knows his face is wet with more than perspiration, but that’s the least humiliating part of this ordeal.

A hand strokes a damp lock from his forehead, soft as a mother’s.

“It wasn’t your fault, Erik. You were a boy.”

Erik doesn’t have the air to answer, though he knows: _I had the power._

 _With no earthly idea how to use it, or even if it was real._ Charles’ face enters his field of vision, eyes burning with earnest, nauseating pity.

 _Not pity. Never for you, my friend._

 _Then what is this?_

Charles’ hand cups his cheek, tilting his face up, and his lips come down in answer. The kiss is dry, closed mouths brushing together, but somehow it burns through them both, hot as kindling about to spark.

 _Compassion._ Charles says softly. _Respect. You have suffered and lived to speak of it, and I am both sorrowed and proud for you._

Erik grips the telepath’s wrist where it rests near his face. “Enough to _do_ something about it? To step aside?”

Charles’ mouth thins to a tight line, and his fingers tighten on Erik’s cheekbone. He finally swallows once, licking his lips before he opens his mouth to speak.

“Isn’t this cozy?”a voice asks from behind Charles’ shoulder. The telepath stiffens at his tone.


	5. Chapter 5

A blast of energy sends Charles flying into the wall, his wrist slipping from Erik’s grasp before he knows what’s happening, and there’s a nauseating _crack_ when he hits the ground, falling like a marionette with the strings cut.

 “I thought I was wise to treat you so gently.” Shaw says as he moves to stand over his over. “More flies with honey and all that, and you were such a sweet, delicate boy; you’d be much less delectable if you were jaded by all I wanted to do to you.”

He kneels to examine Charles, tilting his chin up with a clinical touch. “You did take much more than I ever hoped, though. Took it and came running back for more, as long as I held you and stroked your hair afterwards.”

“S-Sebastian,” Charles gasps, one hand rising shakily to rest on Shaw’s. “Wasn't - was any of it real?”

The hope on the boy’s face is so plain it stabs Erik in the gut. Even bruised and trembling with pain, he craves Shaw’s affection like one craves water on a day when the soil cracks under a bright sun.

Shaw backhands him so hard his head snaps back, and Charles lets out a raw pained sound, fists clenching uselessly.

The man’s voice is detached, almost pleasant in its curiosity: “Did you think that since I let my boy fuck you for a night or two, he owed you something?”

Charles shakes his head, eyes squeezed tightly shut as Shaw grips him by the hair.

“You know what I think, Charles?” he asks softly. “I think you were trying to start a mutiny. Were you tired of being just the boss’s pretty boy? Thought maybe you could talk someone stronger into helping you, if only you fucked his brains out first?”

“Sebastian, I’d never – “

Shaw slams Charles’ head into the wall, and in the same breath, a gold-plated lamp takes aim at the back of his skull.

Before it can connect, before Erik even realizes what he’s done, a surge of wind rips the lamp from his grasp, swarming them in a storm of paper and splintered wood, a storm that knocks Erik flat against the far wall. The impact steals his breath for a long moment, and his lungs scream for air.

Shaw laughs, cold and long. “Never thought you’d go for a damsel in distress.”

 _Neither did I_ , Erik thinks, and knows the situation has gone far out of hand.

Shaw rises to his feet, approaching Erik with slow, predatory steps, his suit rippling in the wind. “I don’t need Charles to protect me from you. I made you, my boy, and I can unmake you with a thought.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Erik asks numbly.

Shaw’s mouth curls again, as it had all those years ago at seeing Erik undone in his study, so pained and furious he couldn’t speak. “You’re right. I might as well enjoy this.”

Erik grasps every ounce of rage he can summon, from his helplessness, from watching Charles bleed onto the floor, from knowing he has come this hard only to risk failing again. He hasn’t much to work with: the gold plating on the heavy furniture, the coin in his pocket, a few watches and belt buckles, and other small, scattered items. No guns or knives in sight, but Erik didn’t need those to kill his first men, either.

Shaw disintegrates the first chair Erik throws into his path in a flash like an atom bomb, and kicks the second out of his way. His feet plant firmly in the ground when Erik tries shoving at his belt buckle, and Riptide’s storm sweeps up the pens and nails and other useless trash Erik attempts to throw.

As Shaw laughs and stalks closer, Erik knows himself defeated.

 _Charles!_ he projects, staring his enemy in the eye. _He won’t stop with killing us. He’ll keep going, keep corrupting each person who falls into his grasp – and it will be our fault._

He receives nothing back. Charles is either unconscious or unwilling to answer. Erik swallows and considers his last option: a coin from another life. He grips it tightly in his mind, pulling it to the inside corner of his suit jacket.

 “Do you care to revisit old times?” Shaw asks, only he speaks in German now, taking on the mild tones of Herr Doktor Schmidt.

When Erik doesn’t answer, he muses, “Or perhaps enjoy newer pursuits. I liked watching you come, my boy. I bet I could make you do it here in front of everyone.”

His voice drops, low and confidential. “Maybe I’ll break a few bones first, though.”

 _Charles, you can_ do _this._

Shaw finally closes the distance between them, taking Erik’s right hand in both of his. When he struggles, Shaw slams him back hard enough to crack the plaster in the wall, a strength no ordinary human would possess.

Then he takes Erik’s little finger in his fist and jerks backward, and the _snap_ makes his vision go black with pain. He grips the coin hard with his mind, convinced that if he lets go of his power now, it’ll never come back.

 “You should have known better, my boy.” Shaw tuts, seizing another finger. Erik bites back a scream, turning it into a low, mangled cry.

“Better than what?” Erik grinds out.

“Than to think I wouldn’t keep an eye on my back. That you could hide something like that from your _creator._ ” A third _crack_ followed by a _squeeze_ , and this time Erik does scream.

“Though I admit to hoping you’d come to your senses and know the winning side when you saw it.” Shaw sighs.

“You’ll never win, Schmidt.” Erik pants, unable to uncurl his body from the wrist Shaw grips, to look him in the eye like a man. “You lost me, you lost Charles – how soon before the rest realize they’re only pawns to you? That you’ll kill them, too, the moment they question you?”

“My colleagues always knew the cost of betrayal.” Shaw says. “Pity you didn’t.”

“Forget me. Peace would never have lasted between us, and you know that.” Shaw’s hand pauses on his index finger, his eyes giving nothing away. Erik continues, “You didn’t _make_ me for peace. But Charles followed you for half his life, and you’re still throwing him away.”

“But that’s how it was always going to end: Charles, sacrificed for _me._ ” Shaw’s eyes take on a dreamy, satisfied look. “It’s what he was made for, and he’s fit that purpose beautifully. He’s done me one last service in exposing you, and now it’s time to move on.”

“I thought what you did to me was twisted.” Erik says, tasting bile. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

This time Shaw grips each of his four fingers tight, crushing them anew only to grind the bones against each other. He laughs at the raw, animal sound wrenched from Erik’s throat, at the sweat that breaks out on his forehead, at his fruitless struggles.

Then Shaw grabs both of Erik’s wrists in his hand, pins them over his head, and his free hand comes to Erik’s chest.

“You don’t scream as well as you used to,” he remarks. Heat blooms from the hand against Erik’s chest, just strong enough to make him gasp. “I’m tired of it already.”

 _Now, Erik_ , he hears, and it has to be his imagination. He risks a glance over Shaw’s shoulder and  sees Charles staring at him from the ground, his face white with strain. He doesn’t dare linger on the sight, but the telepath nods once, slowly.

Erik grips the coin with the force of twenty years of hate, with the force of a bullet through a woman’s skull, and he lets it fly straight through Shaw.

The heat from Shaw’s palm surges blistering-hot, and then just _stops_. Shaw’s eyes fix on his own hand in shock, and a low, pained moan comes from him.

Gut wounds hurt, but they take a long time to kill. Erik knows the moment the coin has ripped through Shaw’s belly, and he draws it back just as fast, up through where Shaw’s spleen must be, and he remembers the anatomical lessons, Shaw’s quiet voice pointing out each organ one by one, while Erik tried not to focus on the familiar features that marked the corpses as _like him._

Shaw stares ahead, pupils constricted to small points, eyes glassy with pain.

 _Hurry, Erik._

With a snarl, he yanks the coin up through Shaw’s heart, pushing the man away, where he falls to the ground. He watches Shaw’s last shaking attempt at breath before the light fades from the man’s eyes, a faster death than either of them deserve.

Long moments later, he turns to stare at Riptide, daring him to issue a challenge. From his post at the door, the other mutant couldn’t have stopped him. He won’t stop him now, either. Erik’s not sure whether or not he’s disappointed when the mutant raises his hands calmly as if to say, _This isn’t my fight._

Then Erik is kneeling at Charles’ side, eyes scanning for bleeding, for broken bones, for anything. The telepath’s face is still alarmingly pale and strained, and he holds his left arm awkwardly from his body, propping himself up on his right.

“Can you stand?” Erik asks, inspecting the swelling in Charles’ arm with practiced fingers.

Charles shakes his head wordlessly.

“Get Azazel,” Erik snaps, and Riptide’s fading steps are all the answer he needs. His hands brush over Charles’ ribs, down his thighs, cupping the back of his knee to flex the joint.

“Where does it hurt?”

 _It - it doesn’t._ And he can feel the panic rising in Charles, the traitorous numbness where his legs should have been, and he bites back a curse.

“You’re going to be fine,” Erik says, holding the telepath’s uninjured arm. “We’ll get you to a hospital. Modern doctors can work marvels.”

And Charles smiles shakily, not believing a word, but gripping Erik’s arm like a lifeline.


	6. Epilogue

Hospitals bring back too many memories, caged in antiseptic white, white walls, white floors, and white sheets, combined with all forms of needles, electrodes, and strange machines beeping everywhere as people chatter in a language Erik doesn’t know. He nearly kills a heart patient by stepping too close in a moment of poor control. The orderly gives him a long look, and he makes sure to steer clear of any equipment that looks expensive. Even if his frayed nerves tempt him to grab and twist and _maim_ every scrap of steel or iron in sight.

Finally a nurse with smooth dark skin beckons him, and his mouth goes dry. He follows her through the door, hears the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor.

“Mr. Lehnsherr,” Charles greets him, legs laying eerily still beneath the sheets.

The nurse asks Charles quietly if he needs anything, but Charles sends her away politely.

 “I think we can dispense with formalities after – “ Erik searches for some apt phrase, something less vulgar than _we’ve fucked_ or _you’ve killed with me._ He fails to find one, settling with, “Well, now.”

“True enough. Erik.”

They stay quiet for a long moment, Erik standing, Charles sitting upright in the bed. Finally Charles sighs. “There’s a box on that table over there. I doubt the lock is much obstacle to you.”

It’s true; the steel mechanism _wants_ to do his bidding, to click into place, to let the lid spring open.

On top is a passport in Charles’ name, scarcely used, with a US driver’s license tucked inside. Underneath it lies two hundred dollars, with similar sums in pounds, marks, francs, and pesos. Credit cards and a checkbook as well. At the bottom is a cream-colored sheet of paper with the letterhead of a Swiss bank.

He takes the sheet carefully, holding it out to Charles, who takes it with a nod.

“You know I didn’t part on – the best terms with my family. But they never changed my inheritance. I don’t know if it was a kindness or an oversight.”

Erik says nothing, watching Charles smooth and re-smooth the folded paper with his hands.

“It’s more money than I’ll ever need, and I – owe you, so to speak.”

“For what?”

Charles fixes him with his too-earnest stare, the one that makes Erik want to look away. “For protecting a monster all those years. For being too blind to see before it was too late.”

“How much money are we talking about?” Erik asks without a trace of propriety.

The sum Charles names makes him reel. He supposes it must seem like little to someone born to wealth, but Erik has never lived more than hand to mouth. He’d never even brought himself to spend the gold he’d confiscated, only dangled it before fat bankers, waiting for one to squeal.

“That’s hardly necessary.” Erik manages.

“Frankly, I don’t give a _shit_ about necessary.” Charles tells him, managing to make even profanity sound smooth and erudite. “You can take it or I can burn it, I don’t care which.”

His tone leaves no room for argument, and Erik has none to offer. The guilt is clear in the telepath’s tone, and if wasting half his fortune assuages it, Erik won’t stop him.

“I – may I ask where you’ll go, once the transfer’s ready?”

And the truth is, none of Erik’s plans ever saw him this far. They always stopped with either him or Shaw dead on the ground, and that was all he’d needed. Before he’d begun hunting his creator, his life had been aimless, no goals short of surviving and keeping himself out of his enemy’s grasp.

They never ended with his hand bandaged to within an inch of its life, standing over Shaw’s lover, a man he had known in the most vulgar and intimate senses of the word. A pawn he’d thought to manipulate; an ally he’d allowed himself to imagine standing by his side, however briefly.

Charles will likely never stand again, with or without him, he thinks bitterly.

“I suppose I’m in no hurry to leave.” Erik says slowly. “If I might impose on you.”

“You could never impose. Consider yourself my guest, for as long as you’d like.”

“A different form of hospitality.” he remarks, and regrets it the same instant.

Charles cracks a smile. “You should find me an infinitely more tolerable host. Once I figure out where we’re going.”

Erik holds out a hand, and they shake as if making a business deal.  Perhaps they are. Charles holds on slightly longer than necessary, and Erik doesn’t stop him.

“I read some of McCoy’s files,” he says off-handedly, continuing only when he gets a stiff nod from Charles. “It’s as if he saw you coming. That white building outside that none of us could figure out - it was a machine for a telepath.”

Charles’ eyes go dark with regret, and his hands clench in the starched sheets.

“He thought you could use it to find more of us, more mutants.”

Understanding dawns in Charles’ eyes.

“I wouldn’t – the CIA has no place in that.” Erik says, not bothering to state what he knows would happen. First identification of the threat; then monitoring; and finally elimination. “But what if there are more people like Shaw, who would gather and use mutants the way he did?”

“You want to destroy the machine?”

“Or we could use it first. Build our own army.”

Charles frowns. “We don’t need an army, Erik. But… perhaps a safe haven.”

The concept is at odds with anything Erik has ever known, but then, he’s never known much about anything _good_. And he’s tasted the goodness in Charles through the layers of mind and memory, senses that the telepath could build something Erik was never capable of.

“Perhaps.” is all he says, but Charles smiles anyway.


End file.
